Hurrying back, his hunger now sated for a while, Julian mused on the evening. A new lesson had been learned. These so-called blood bars were dangerous places. His own stark need had been revealed too clearly in front of the humans. He had grown careless this past decade, with these new groups of pretend vampires. He had allowed himself to be lulled into believing they wouldn’t find his behaviors odd. Now he had gotten himself noticed, and the attention wasn’t positive. He would collect Marguerite and leave quietly.
Quickly he returned to the little antique shop on Bourbon, licking a stray droplet of human blood from his lower lip. The old fellow greeted him with a smile and gestured toward the back of the dimly lit store. When Julian entered the dark little bar, he saw the group he had watched enter as he’d left.
They turned to look at him as he stepped into the place. Marguerite stood and called out, “Julian! There you are. What took you so long?” As Julian stepped further into the room, he saw something catch the light on the tall young man’s neck. Looking closer for a moment, he did a double take. Too many coincidences tonight!
“Excuse me, sir,” he said politely, his voice blandly hiding his inner excitement. “Where did you come upon such an interesting, ah, trinket?”
“Oh, this?” answered Robert, for that is who it was, with Rhonda and Mistress Margo in tow. His voice took on a didactic tone as if he were beginning a lecture. “This is called an amphora. Among the ancients, these vessels were used for holding sacred wine or special oils. They say that ancient vampires used the lip to cut their victim’s throat just so.” Robert unscrewed the little silver cap, revealing the bottle’s sharp edge, holding it against his own neck.
“Is that so?” Julian willed away the sudden image of that diamond-sharp glass cutting the man’s throat, allowing a gush of brilliant red. The fool was right in that vampires used these things, but wrong as to the purpose. Julian didn’t correct him. “How did you come by it, if I may ask?”
“Oh. I bought it online. At a Coven Auction. I paid quite a bit for it, actually. I’m going to have copies of it made for members of my coven, the Red Covenant. It will be our symbol.” He smiled proudly, as if waiting for congratulations.
Julian resisted a sudden impulse to rip the amphora from its delicate chain. Could this amphora be the very one used by the vampire Adrienne so long ago? If so, how had it left Adrienne’s possession and ended up on an Internet auction site?
To possess such a thing! To imagine that it even existed. Taking a deep breath, he forced his features into a neutral, pleasant smile. He sensed that this man would enjoy withholding something another person wanted. He could feel the pettiness of the man’s mind and his own instinct was immediate dislike. Yet, he could also feel the man’s power. He was clearly a leader among men, or at least among those in his little group of playacting friends.
“Well, that truly is a lovely piece. Allow me to introduce myself. I am called Julian Gaston.” Marguerite had sidled up near him and he nodded toward her adding, “And this is my companion for the evening, Marguerite.”
“A pleasure,” answered Robert, firmly shaking Julian’s offered hand. “I am Robert. Robert Dalton. This is Mistress Margo, a sanguine vampire like myself, and my personal swan, Rhonda. Rhonda’s going to donate tonight, aren’t you, girl? If there is a taker, she is prepared to give her blood tonight. Are you, sir, a sanguine? Do you savor the taste of blood?”
Oh, if you only knew, you wretched human, Julian thought to himself. Then his eye caught Margo’s. She was older than the others but still lovely. It wasn’t her beauty that attracted him, at least not solely. Perhaps it was her expression, subtly ironic as she gazed at him. Probing her mind for a moment, he pulled back suddenly. On some level, perhaps not quite a conscious one, she knew what he was! They locked eyes for a moment, and Margo’s lips curved up enigmatically.
“Julian’s a real vampire!” Marguerite piped up excitedly, interrupting the silent communion between Julian and Margo. “He drinks blood! Lots of it. I bet he’d love to cut on Rhonda, wouldn’t you, baby?”
What had he been thinking when he’d bedded this girl? The last vestige of desire slipped away as her words grated against his ears. Consciously avoiding Margo’s eye, Julian smiled blandly and said, “Oh, occasionally I dabble in the blood-arts. But tonight I’m rather tired, I think. It’s been wonderful meeting you all. Perhaps we could talk at a later date, Mr. Dalton, about that amphora. I would be interested in buying it from you. Perhaps we could discuss terms at a later date.”
“Oh,” Robert said, fingering the little bottle at his neck. Julian slipped into his thoughts, I could make a fortune off this idiot. I could sell this for three times what I bought it. He looks like a sap. I’ll do it. Robert looked startled for a moment, as these thoughts bounced in his brain, confusing him. Then he smiled slightly, a greedy smile, and slipped a little card from his jacket. “My card, sir,” he said pompously, as if he were a proper gentleman from the nineteenth century, instead of a twenty-something American boy who had never been out of Louisiana in all his short life.
Julian pocketed the card and left the little bar, determined to send Marguerite on her way with a few well-placed thoughts about what a tedious and boring man he himself was, and how much she would like to be rid of him.
* * * * *
Grace tried on several outfits before she decided on the teal-blue silk blouse over simple, black linen pants. The blouse set off the color of her hair nicely, she thought, as she eyed herself critically in the mirror. She would leave her hair down tonight, held in place only by a pearl barrette above each ear.
When Grace had last stumbled from that old mansion, shaken to the core, it was Margo’s phone number that was clutched in her hand. At first, she’d only taken it at Margo’s insistence. The whole experience had thoroughly shaken her up, and Grace’s plan, her modus operandi most of her adult life, was to try to forget it had ever happened.
But this time she couldn’t. The sweet peppery taste of blood now haunted her dreams each night. She would awaken in a sweat, crying out as the images of blood against white flesh tormented her. She found her appetite for food had diminished and yet her hunger for blood now raged, unabated and unsatisfied. Her sexual arousal had peaked as well and she couldn’t keep her own fingers from her poor, hot little pussy. Even at work she found herself unable to concentrate, instead slipping off to the bathroom to hurriedly rub herself to some kind of meager relief. Though usually indifferent to the attentions of the men in her office, she suddenly found herself looking them over, trying to pick someone in her mind she would like to fuck. Alas, the selection was grim, mostly men twice her age or half her intellect. She had left work early on Thursday, feeling too weak and achy to concentrate.
When she had finally dared to dial Margo’s number, the older woman’s calm insistence that she come to the Red Covenant dinner that coming Saturday night had won her over. “You mustn’t run anymore, Grace. There is something you need to confront. I know you’re not ready yet, but don’t shut yourself off from your own potential. Come to see me. Come to our dinner. We’ll have a chance to talk then. And perhaps Rhonda will be your swan again.”
“No!” Grace bit her lip. She would not subject herself to that uncontrollable display again. No! If they hadn’t stopped her, how long would she have nursed at Rhonda’s offered wound? And now the desire was so strong, she doubted she would let them stop her.
“Hush now, chérie,” Margo had soothed, as if Grace had spoken aloud. “You don’t have to do a thing you don’t want to do. Just come and break bread with us, and meet some of the others. You are not alone in your bloodlust, dear. The more you learn the more you will be comforted, and the more you will learn to handle this gift.”
“Gift?” This wretched pain in her gut? This pain and hunger that had been simmering just below the surface since she first entered puberty? What gift was this? Curse, it seemed to Grace. And so aloud, she said, “You mean this curse!”
&nb
sp; “No, no,” Margo answered. “Don’t curse what you do not understand. There’s a reason I want you to come. Robert has invited a man I think you should meet. Someone we met recently who took quite an interest in Robert’s little amulet. His name is Julian Gaston and I believe that he is the real thing, my dear, just as I suspect you are.”
The real thing. Grace didn’t ask what she meant. She was right on the edge of her own understanding, but unwilling to hear it from another. Not yet.
Now here she was, dressing carefully in pretty silk to have dinner with a bunch of blood-fetishists at some creepy old mansion. Well, why not? This was New Orleans, after all, where anything could happen. And Margo wanted her to meet some dark mysterious stranger with a French name. Certainly, he’d be more interesting than Robert Dalton!
In the cool of the early evening, Grace picked her way past hidden courtyards and lacy balconies, past secret fountains splashing, leprous scaly stucco, monstrous greenery and live oaks dripping beards of moss, through surprising pockets of light where the air seemed to lie like colored veils. As she turned onto Charles Street, the familiar ache in her belly pulled at her, but something else was happening as well. A premonition. A feeling that something was going to happen. Something she had been waiting for, though she couldn’t think what that might be.
She knocked upon the heavy old door and again it was Rhonda who opened it. “Oh, hello!” Rhonda said, smiling shyly. Grace smiled back uncertainly. Rhonda took her arm, gently pulling her into the room. “Grace, you were certainly something last Saturday! No one’s ever done that to me. I can’t stop thinking about it! Robert’s actually jealous, can you believe it! He keeps cutting me, trying to do what you did, but it just isn’t the same. He’s a player, poor boy. I love him dearly, but he isn’t the real thing. Not like you.”
The real thing. Why did they all keep saying that? Grace forced herself to respond lightly, “Well, I don’t know about that. It was an interesting experience, though. And I think you’re very brave to do it.”
“Oh, it isn’t about bravery, silly. I get off on it. It gets me hot.” When Grace glanced sharply at her, Rhonda blushed, high little spots of red against her pale freckled cheeks. She dropped Grace’s arm and said more formally, “Come on. Most everyone’s here.”
Grace followed Rhonda into the large old-fashioned parlor. Her eyes lighted on Margo, sitting imperiously with her boy Mark kneeling at her feet, his head resting in her lap. Slowly she smoothed his lemon-colored head, the hair contrasting prettily with her wine-red velvet skirt.
“Grace,” she called out, her voice rich and deep, “I’m so glad you could come.” Robert appeared just then, coming to stand proprietarily behind Rhonda, dropping a long, thin hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Grace said, feeling self-conscious. The heavy knocker sounded again on the door and Rhonda, with a little push from Robert, went to open it. Grace, still standing near the entrance hall, was wondering if she should go in and sit down when the door opened.
Sage and lemon balm. Sex. Desire. Lust. She was transported back for a moment to that day at the Vampire Ball, when that same delicious scent had assailed her nostrils, leaving her weak with desire. Turning, her eyes bright, her face flushed with expectation, Grace saw Rhonda ushering in an extremely handsome man, his features dark—dark eyes against fine white skin, dark hair like black silk cascading in smooth waves against his collarless linen shirt. Her eyes followed the curve of his strong chest tapering to a narrow waist. As she admired the well-muscled thighs encased in the softest toffee-brown leather, clearly tailored just for him, she couldn’t help but notice the sexy bulge at his crotch.
But beyond the intense sexual attraction, there was something wildly and instantly compelling about this stranger. She felt her breath catch in her throat when he entered the room. When his eyes alighted upon hers, they seemed to be glinting with some secret laughter. I have found you. The thought tumbled into her brain, and though there was no sound, no timbre to the words, she somehow knew that this man had spoken them, though his lips had not moved and no sound issued from his red, luscious lips.
Suddenly Robert was looming, his lanky form insinuating itself between them. “Ah, Mr. Gaston. I am so pleased you were able to come.” He fingered his amphora pointedly, his mind no doubt calculating the sums he would procure from this man.
“Thank you for your kind invitation, Mr. Dalton,” Julian replied smoothly. His voice was deep and resonant, a continental accent just barely detectable which lent a roundness to his vowels and thoroughly charmed Grace. She stood rooted to the spot, leaning slightly to try and see his face as Robert continued to block her view.
Julian slipped to the side, his eyes burning into hers. “And who is this lovely lady?” he asked, making Grace’s heart thump so hard in her chest that it actually hurt. Her pussy throbbed with need. What was happening to her?
“Ah,” Robert said, “This is Grace. Grace Davis. She isn’t part of our coven yet, but she definitely likes the taste of blood, don’t you, Grace?” His smirk was irritating and Grace would have been annoyed but she didn’t have time to focus on him. All of her attention was riveted on the sweet-smelling man whose eyes held hers in a lover’s stare.
Slowly she held out her hand and Robert seemed to disappear, fading into insignificance. “I’m Grace,” she whispered.
“Julian,” he smiled, taking her hand in his. I’ve been waiting for you.
If asked afterwards, Grace couldn’t remember what they had for dinner, or what the conversation was. From the moment his hand touched hers, something seemed to switch on inside of her. She felt heightened somehow, more alive. It was as if she had been passing through her life in a kind of dream state, only half aware of her surroundings and suddenly she had opened her eyes.
As far as she knew, she sat through the dinner, directly across from the mysterious man, behaving like a normal person, eating, drinking and nodding when people said something to her. But all she saw was his face, the eyes dark and focused solely on hers. She saw herself in the mirror of his eyes, heard his voice whisper inside her head.
They didn’t touch. When they spoke it was of nothing, nothing she could recall. Though they sat apart, their inner selves seemed to almost rise up and meet while their bodies remained seated.
The gnawing in her gut sharpened. When the diners adjourned to the living room for a cutting demonstration, she had a sudden vivid image of leaping toward Mark, the chosen donor of the evening and sinking her teeth into his neck. She could almost taste the precious, bright blood.
She must have stood up from her seat because suddenly Grace felt a hand on her arm.
His hand.
His fingers were long and blunt-tipped as they wrapped gently around her bare forearm. Inside her head she heard, Sit down, Grace. He is not for you. I am for you. I know what you are. I have found you at last.
She turned toward him sharply, but Julian was not looking at her. In fact, he had stood and was now saying to the company at large, “If you will forgive us, Grace and I have another engagement. We must go now.”
All eyes turned to them in surprise, except perhaps Mistress Margo, who simply smiled a small smile, nodding her head imperceptibly.
“But,” sputtered Robert, “You can’t go yet! The fun is just beginning! Anyway, you don’t even know her. I introduced you! And the amphora—” he fingered the trinket. “You wanted to buy this! I don’t usually sell my Objects d’Art, but I might be persuaded.”
“Another time perhaps, Mr. Dalton,” Julian said.
Careful Grace, shy Grace, left the old mansion without a backward glance, Julian Gaston’s hand delicately resting on her elbow as he guided her away.
They walked quietly for a while and Grace realized they were moving toward her little apartment. Did he know where she lived? Who was this man? This perfect man whom she had always known? Julian spoke, his voice gentle, the underlying urgency barely detectable. “I know what you are, Gra
ce. But do you know? I’ve been able to enter your mind, but have felt only the barest hint of telepathy from you. I smell the scent of our kind on you and yet, I don’t see the mark of knowledge in your eyes.”
Grace turned toward him, her knee-jerk reaction to question, to deny, to refuse. But the words died on her lips as he bent toward her. Slowly they kissed, an exploration of each other’s lips and mouths. His strong arms encircled her body as he bent her back, kissing her harder now, his tongue probing, forcing her lips apart. When at last they pulled apart, it was Grace who leaned forward, her mouth open, her eyes glittering with lust.
“Who are you?” she managed to whisper. Her heart was thudding against her bones, the blood roaring in her ears.
“You know who I am. It is time you accept your fate. I am a vampire, as are you, Grace. One of the true kin, the sacred circle.”
Chapter Eight
Grace felt breathless as if she couldn’t properly fill her lungs. The humid New Orleans night air hung heavy against her. The sidewalk seemed to loom and tilt in front of her and a bile rose in her throat. “Please,” she murmured, barely able to hear herself over the ringing in her ears. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Mercifully, they were passing a little park and Julian was able to steer Grace toward a low, wrought iron bench. Grace sank gratefully down, dropping her head into her hands. Gently, Julian pulled her hair back from her face. Her forehead was damp with sweat.
“Calm yourself, my lady. Breathe slowly. I can see this is a shock. I’ve seen it before though not for many years. It is rare that a vampire comes to be without being aware of the circumstances of their existence. What of your parents?”
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